Aftermath (18 page)

‘Little to report, sir, but they're getting bolder, they'll make a mistake.'

‘Yes, so you have time as of now for this case.' Hennessey tapped the file of the Bromyards murders.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. Webster?'

‘I also have time, sir. I am working on the burglaries of wealthy homes in the area, same MO and, like Ventnor, I am waiting for them to make a mistake.'

‘All right . . . you see . . .' Hennessey leaned forward and clasped his hands together, resting them on his desktop, ‘I don't know how best to prioritize this, you see we have a code forty-one on our hands.'

‘A murder!' Yellich sat forward in his chair. ‘As if the Bromyards case wasn't enough.'

‘Yes. You were all committed yesterday and so I attended the murder scene. He . . . the victim, was an old, well oldish . . . a man in his middle years . . . positively identified as one James Post . . . strangled, head smashed in, found in a field just outside the city. Probably would be lying there still had not an alert member of the public put two and two together when she saw a column of flies hovering over something. I'll explain what I mean later, but the upshot of it is we have to visit his drum, an address on the Tang Hall Estate, so not a wealthy man. His brother, who identified the body, phoned later with his brother's address. He also has a key but I asked him to stay clear, it's going to be a lowlife petty criminal murder, brought on by some petty quarrel. It's nothing of the magnitude of this,' Hennessey patted the Bromyards murders file again, ‘but it's fresh, we're still within the first twenty-four hours, whereas with the Bromyards case we seem to be coming in when it's all over, no fresh evidence at all.' Hennessey fell silent. ‘I am going to the post-mortem of James Post; Dr D'Acre is coming in today to do it, to the delight of her daughters.' He smiled. ‘She told me that if she is at work on the weekends her daughters get to ride their horse, without having to compete with her . . . more time for them you see. But I have a visit to do before then . . . that name . . . the couple you visited yesterday afternoon, Pharoah and Ventnor . . . Malpass?'

‘Yes.'

‘That name rang bells with me and yesterday evening when I was exercising my dog I remembered. So, visit, then the post-mortem for me. Webster.'

‘Sir.'

‘I want you to go with Ventnor, collect the key from James Post's brother and visit his flat.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘DC Phaorah, if you could address the phone calls you suggested?'

‘Yes, sir.'

The woman's face melted into a smile when she saw that it was George Hennessey who had knocked on her door. ‘George,' she said warmly and bent forward to kiss his cheek.

‘How are you, Tilly?'

‘Getting there . . . do come in.'

‘Thanks.' Hennessey swept off his panama and stepped over the threshold into Matilda Pakenham's house in Holgate. He saw that she kept it in a neat and clean manner and was burning a joss stick, which filled the house with the pleasant scent of incense.

‘Are you studying?' Hennessey noted a pile of text books in the corner of the living room as he accepted her invitation to take a seat.

‘Yes,' she smiled proudly, ‘just as I said I would if I got the chance . . . History, no firm plans as to what to do with the degree once I get it, but early days yet. I feel like an old woman when I attend lectures with all those female students who were in school uniform just a year ago.'

‘You are younger than you are old, Tilly,' Hennessey smiled. ‘If you see what I mean.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Any news of the ex?'

‘No, he seems to be leaving me alone. He didn't enjoy gaol, he couldn't charm the guys in there.'

‘Well, not only am I calling on you to see how you have settled . . .'

‘Settled is the word. If you hadn't bought me that meal that day I'd still be wrapped in a blanket in a shop doorway, picking out Edelweiss on that old tin whistle for a few coins in a plastic beaker.' She shuddered. ‘What a place to fall to . . . but they say that . . . they say you have to reach your gutter before you can start the long climb back to respectable living.'

‘That's what Alcoholics Anonymous say.'

‘Yes, good people . . . they helped me as much as you did.'

‘It's actually that which I have called to ask you about.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, I want to pick your brains.'

‘I'll make us some tea.' She rose from the scatter cushion on which she sat. ‘My brain will make for richer pickings if I am drinking tea. Join me, George?'

‘Love to, thank you.'

Once again settled, each with a mug of herbal tea, which was not to George Hennessey's taste, he said, ‘I recall you talking about a couple . . . one Mr and Mrs Malpass.'

Tilly Pakenham shuddered. ‘Yes, I will never forget them . . . oh . . . will I ever.'

‘Tell me about them.'

‘Why? Have they come to your attention? I knew they would.'

‘Just tell me about them . . . how you met . . . why you didn't see them again? If you recall, you told me once. I was not really interested in them then.'

‘But you are now?'

‘Well, let's just say, let's just say things have developed.'

‘I see . . . well Ronald and Sylvia, what can I tell you? We met in an AA meeting. They were different from the others, they had confidence, self-respect. If they were alcoholics they had made a full recovery. Not just dry, but they had recovered their self-confidence, self-respect, self-worth. He was tall and handsome and she was elegant . . . both well dressed. In fact, he put me in mind of my husband, the charming salesman and equally vicious wife beater. He wouldn't have sold as many cars and kitchen units as he did if the customers knew how often he put my blood on the wall.'

‘Indeed.' Hennessey sipped the herbal tea.

‘Well, they approached me and said they offered an alternative for one or two evenings a week, and I asked them what they meant. They said that it's more of a drink avoidance group . . . for people who get fed up with the usual AA routine of people boasting how they overcame it. It does get routine and they said it came to the point that they realized that they were sitting in the AA meetings as a means of avoiding sitting in a pub. It was seen as an alternative place to go, but you had to sit in rows like you were in a cinema and listen to one or two people's life stories, and what they really needed was a pleasant evening's chat, like spending the evening in the pub with your mates but without the alcohol.'

‘All right.'

‘Well, it sounded inviting, so I went along, met in a cafe in the centre of York, one that opens in the evening, and we drank coffee, had a nibble to eat and just chatted until we felt we had killed the evening, by which time we just wanted to go home and sleep.'

‘Just the three of you?'

‘Oh no . . . no . . . there could have been six or seven sometimes, but those two were always there, it was their group, Ronald and Sylvia's . . . and a small bloke who rarely said much. I can't remember his name, but Ron and Sylvia were all charm and smiles and approving looks, and it's that which got me on edge. I had just escaped from a man who had lured me into a violent marriage with exactly that selfsame sort of charm and approval.'

A heavy footfall was heard passing the window, a click, click, click of steel-heeled stilettos which echoed in the narrow street. ‘That woman,' Tilly Pakenham inclined her head to the window, ‘she lives three doors down. I tell you, she can't go into her backyard to put her rubbish out or hang her washing on the line without wearing those shoes, so that the whole terrace hears her. When she walks out of doors the world has to know about it.'

‘It could be worse,' Hennessey drained his cup, ‘could be a lot worse.'

‘Dare say. So, where was I?'

‘The charming Ronald.'

‘Ah, yes . . . and the equally charming Sylvia, they were like two peas in a pod.'

‘How long did you attend their evening get-togethers?'

‘For a few months over one winter.'

‘And you stopped going?'

‘Yes, when they asked me if I'd like to go to the coast with them . . . just a day's run to the coast.'

‘In winter?'

‘Yes. I thought that was strange. I saw a small palm tree in a hailstorm once . . . winter hail . . . that is a coastal resort in the winter, so I didn't think it sounded inviting, and then there was that smile . . . that charm . . . alarm bells rang. I thought, I've been here before, so I declined, and when I did a look of anger flashed across his eyes and I knew then that I had made the right choice.'

‘Did he extend the invitation to others?'

‘Not on that occasion, that evening there was only myself, the quiet little guy and Ronald and Sylvia. It was when the little guy had gone to buy more coffee for us that they asked me if I wanted to go with them to the coast for the day. That was the last I saw of them.'

‘I see. When was that?'

‘Oh . . . about two winters ago.'

‘Do you remember anyone else there?'

‘One or two, mostly women, varying ages.'

‘Any in particular?'

‘Yes, a really sweet girl called Veronica, she came quite often then just stopped, probably got the same sort of vibes off Ronald and Sylvia that I got.'

‘Yes,' Hennessey rose from his chair. ‘She probably did.'

Dr D'Acre pushed the microphone away from her and up towards the ceiling, it being mounted on a long anglepoise arm, and peeled off her latex gloves as Eric Filey wheeled the corpse of the late James Post towards the mortuary. ‘Well, that's it,' she announced calmly, ‘massive head injuries and also massive injuries to the throat. Someone wanted him deceased all right, and frankly either injury would have been fatal.'

‘A belt and bracer job,' Hennessey offered. He stood against the wall of the mortuary laboratory dressed in green disposable paper coveralls.

‘Yes . . . yes . . . I dare say that you could say that, dare say you could describe it thusly . . . a belt and bracers job. The injuries are certainly contemporary with each other and I would guess, but only guess, that he was strangled before sustaining the head injury, though . . . though . . . there is no reason why they have to be in that order, but it was someone making sure . . . belt and bracers job as you say. Total absence of blood under his fingernails. He didn't put up much of a fight, or he clawed at nothing, or couldn't fight at all, so perhaps the blow to the head was the first injury to be sustained after all . . . but a blow to the head has more of a making sure feel about it than does strangulation.'

‘Yes, I would think the same.'

‘If he was strangled by someone much larger than he, then that would also help explain the absence of blood; he simply could not reach his attacker's face and being a very small man that means that his attacker would not have to be abnormally tall . . . he might have tried to pull his attacker's hands off him but he wouldn't have clawed at them . . . people in that situation just don't.'

‘I see.'

‘His kidneys have been damaged by alcohol consumption over many years and his liver showed signs of recovery from alcohol damage. Very useful organ is the liver, in that it can recover from sustained abuse . . . the kidneys can't. So he was a dried out alcoholic. His body was clean, he washed, but the kidney damage was unmissable, he had hit the bottle in his life and the bottle had hit back.'

‘Very well.'

‘So tell me,' Dr D'Acre turned to Hennessey, ‘have you identified the last remaining unidentified corpse in the kitchen garden murders case?'

‘No. Not yet.'

‘I see . . . that will be another grave for me to visit.'

‘Another?'

‘Yes, I visit John Brown's grave from time to time . . . you recall the bloated floater?'

‘Ah, yes . . . you evacuated this room, put on all extractor fans, took a deep breath, stabbed the stomach and ran for the door?'

‘Yes, that one. He was given a name and buried in a pauper's grave in Fulford Cemetery, but he was somebody's son, possibly somebody's brother, maybe somebody's father . . . so they gave him a name and buried him, and I go and lay a flower on his grave every now and again. So I might be doing the same for that wretched woman. Just sufficient of her remained for me to be able to tell that her liver and kidneys were shot to hell; just a derelict bag lady, no one missed her. But she was somebody's daughter, maybe somebody's sister, and possibly somebody's mother and no one reported her missing. She'll be given a name and buried in the paupers section of the cemetery close to John Brown . . . another grave for me to visit.'

Webster turned the key in the lock of James Post's flat. Ventnor stood beside him. Both officers wore latex gloves. Without a word passing between them the two officers entered the flat, which was on the second floor of a block of low rise flats and accessed from a neatly kept common staircase. They proceeded with caution and with Webster announcing their presence by calling out ‘Police'. Receiving no answer, the officers stepped into the corridor carefully observing the six foot rule, that they must continually be within six feet of each other at all times to witness any findings of evidence, and to witness that neither was light-fingered should the householder or relative accuse the police of theft.

The flat had five rooms and a bathroom and a kitchen, three of the rooms being bedrooms. It was clearly not a flat intended for single person occupancy. The possibility which occurred to both Webster and Ventnor was that James Post was once married, his spouse and children had left and he had retained the tenancy, as would have been his right, and he would have resisted all moves by the Housing Department to accept a smaller flat, tenants rights being tenants rights.